A symphony of cymbals –
a bolus of subconscious, chewed over,
spitting image out
in a spatter of letters that will stand for
anything –
is a symbol
once and for all
the symbols’
brassy, dual
crash in the long hall
of the mind’s notational
audience with itself,
the representative,
not the Actual,
the matter of immaterial
Fact.
Fact?
What the fuck
is that?
Perhaps
it’s a synapse’s
plastic capacity so unparsed Space
can part its Paradox –
Empty Pleasure, Full of Itself –
into a grammar of mirror,
ion
of transmission,
so forth
and back,
paired voyeurs of your
image’s urge
to enlarge
upon
an axon’s
hard-on
for information
in formation,
randy and-or neurons
turning off
and turning on,
symbio-
sis
and bro
of stop and go,
nerve’s never-ever land of yes and no,
the old,
new
one-two,
a powerful combination to the head,
a symbol list, so
many things
to du-
ality
in a lifelike likeness, the state –
my goodness, my badness – you’re in
when you’re out of it.
Now that’s
a fact.
Or
fiction
as pure.